


The Bard.

by werewolve



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Don't come for me this is the longest fic I've ever written in one sitting, I love them though, Jaskier converts his pain into productivity, M/M, Other, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:54:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22837378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/werewolve/pseuds/werewolve
Summary: After the events of series one of The Witcher, Jaskier leaves behind his stage name in place of a new life for himself forever in pursuit of who he once was. Who could blame him for becoming a hunter himself when his muse is always placed at a strategic distance from him? Soulmates, they say, however, are bound to each other for all eternity. What he can't escape, Jaskier must choose to endure or embrace.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 5
Kudos: 209





	The Bard.

Another grey hair fell to the silk clad shoulder of a man who watched his reflection in the glint of a passing window. The horse on which he rode trod slowly, carefully, and never needed prompting. The village was quaint, but bustling, and for a long while the man simply took in the sights around him. Attached to the saddle of the horse was a cloth bag stained with a thick ooze, something fermented and reeking of a time long since forgotten. It hit the mare’s side as it rocked with her gait, and yet she remained as unphased as her rider, and through its outward facing side stuck something white and bloodied. 

Reaching a large wooden gate, the man met the eyes of a guard and nodded slowly, to be met with a grin and a stand of attention. 

‘Sir.’

‘You’d think I lead an army.’

‘You most certainly represent one.’

‘Do I?’ The man hummed, sucking his teeth and glancing up at the sky as he thought. Above him a flock of birds swooped low, ‘Let my army know it will rain today, then.’

The guard nodded, reaching across himself to knock twice, and with a short break between, three times more on the gate. It opened with a creak, and as though on its own, something magical fizzling in its wake. Digging his heel just slightly, the man set the mare into motion, and they rode into the foreign land behind the stone wall. The place was not one that was new to the rider, but it may as well have been each time he visited. Its gardens always changed, its buildings were never the same for more than a week. It sometimes had people, a rowdy town of patrons young and old, and other times it was no more than a solitary cottage atop a hill or driven into a mountainside. Today, a house stood in a meadow, that somehow stretched far further than the stone walls would have allowed. The man dismounted, leading the mare instead by her reins along a dirt path through the growth. Yellow flowers peered through green grass, reflecting the glow of the sun above them. 

It would not rain here.

Reaching the door of the home, a small bell rang on its own, as though to announce the man’s arrival. A clatter could be heard through the wall, and the guest rocked on his feet to glance through the large windows of the front room. Sure enough, there stood an old man, rolling his eyes at a turned over table by his feet. Ignoring the predicament he found himself in, the owner of the house strode towards the door, and upon opening it immediately frowned. 

‘You always arrive at the worst moment.’

‘It’s a talent of mine.’

Another roll of his eyes and the greying visitor was welcomed in. He entered gratefully, though not before unhooking the rotten loot that hung from his travel companion. Throwing it to the wooden ground, he watched as his host inspected the bounty with pursed lips. Inside the bag resided a head, one missing an eye and half a jaw, one flawed and not what should have been collected. The host grunted in discontent, and shaking his head simply turned to enter the sitting room once again. He followed behind. 

‘Your talents are numerous, and yet every request I make of you goes unfulfilled.’

‘I’d apologise, but the requests you make are always ridiculous.’

The man kicked at the ground, leaning against a door frame and going no further into the room. He could not even if he wished to. The wizard before him had long since forbidden him, and anybody else, from entering his quarters. Men of magic were always something of a hermit variety, whether out of choice or by force. Wizards hunted for their actions, Witchers exiled for their deeds, magicians of every variety preferring a solitary life of ill thoughts to a social one of ill realities. 

Outside, the mare whinnied, kicking up the dust beneath her hooves as though startled by something. 

‘If a hair on her mane is out of place-’ Her owner snarled, an empty threat at the given moment.

‘You worry too much. She saw a butterfly.’

‘There were no butterflies on our way in.’ 

‘There are many now.’

The man turned at the statement, catching the thread of his suit on the woodchips of the doorframe. Sure enough, butterflies of every variety swarmed the meadow, alighting it with a sea of colour. The suit tore.

‘You will forever be too easily distracted by beauty, Pankratz.’ The wizard snapped his fingers and the door shut with a harsh noise, obscuring the now named man’s view of his steed. ‘When will you learn your distance is a danger to yourself?’ 

‘Things of beauty are to be admired.’ Pankratz turned with a harsh shoulder, tearing further the hole in his sleeve. He hissed at the rip, running the loose fabric between his forefinger and thumb, ‘And protected.’

‘Then do your job.’

‘I did.’

‘Not well.’  
Pankratz scoffed, rolling his eyes and attempting to smooth the ruined silk back into place. Yet another of his best outfits ruined in a moment after the actual action. For twelve and a half years now, he had been travelling from town to town, kingdom to kingdom, picking up the pieces a particular Witcher continued to leave behind. Ever since the moment on the mountain, the bardian hunter had been only a few steps behind his former Rivian companion. Where Geralt went, Pankratz- the name he now solely adopted- followed. Not out of need, nor out of spite, but simply out of care for those Geralt denied aid to. Those jobs he deemed too simple, or too out of his way, too much for him and not enough for the dwindling number of other witchers around, were picked up by Pankratz. In turn, he reported to the forgotten leaders of old villages. The mages and elves, the humane of the monsters, the humans themselves. He made deliveries and earned his keep. And in his free time, of which he had much, he resumed his stage name and continued his songs. 

Now he had far more to write about, and yet far too little inspiration. 

Geralt, as much as he hated to admit it, had been his sole muse. Without his Witcher he had little reason to sing, yet he did. Week to week he sang of the good, the bad, and the beautiful. He encountered the townspeople, he entertained them at their parties. As Jaskier, he may still have been the naive eighteen year old he once was. 

And then, at the end of the day, he returned to whatever inn or stable he was currently living out of and replaced his lute with a sword. 

It was no Witcher’s sword, but his heritage allowed for something at least usable enough to do its job. The sword itself might have belonged more to a wall display, it became blunt too easily and was coated in ornate engravings that made its weight uneven. Pankratz had no means of being picky with his weapon, although at one time he had attempted to use a bow. It had not gone well, the many archery lessons at his home as a child never having paid off. Moving targets coming at you at full speed were seemingly far harder to hit than already dead birds thrown into the air by a helpers hands. 

‘Where have you wandered this time?’

His attention was snapped back to the room, which in his mere moment’s absence had morphed into something far colder in appearance, ‘The usual place.’

‘Person.’ His teacher tutted, waving a hand in dismissal, ‘I have nothing more for you today anyway. Go, find him again.’

‘I’m not looking for him.’

‘Then find what he leaves in his wake. Just next time make sure its jaw is intact.’

Pankratz nodded, humming at his cue to leave and turning on a heel. The door opened without a need for him to raise his hand, and this time he was already outside the stone walls, his mare waiting for him patiently. He smiled, running a hand over her cheek and pressing his forehead to hers as she lowered her neck. After spending so long in the company of only a horse, Pankratz had begun to understand Geralt’s connection with his own mount. Horses were far easier companions than people. They rarely complained and were easily satisfied by a single sugar cube. There was no fighting to be done with a mare, treating her with respect was enough to gain her favour. Pankratz had never named her, at least never consciously, she had always simply been Nela. 

‘Onwards, then?’

A soft whinny came from Nela, followed swiftly by a nudge that Pankratz took as a form of agreement. Chuckling, he once again mounted the mare’s back and kicked gently at her side to break her into a canter. He knew exactly where they were going, he’d picked up the trail a week back. By working still as a bard, he managed to draw information out of even the most stubborn of tavern men. Everybody knew by now that he was no longer Geralt’s companion, and yet they also knew he may as well still have been. For all the time they had been apart, Geralt seemed to ask only of Jaskier, and Pankratz seemed to ask only of Geralt. 

It wasn’t as though Geralt was unaware he was being tailed. It was more that he wasn’t sure who by. Pankratz was quick to pull strings and cash in favours, and suddenly Jaskier was merely a whisper on the wind or the subject of a drunken review. As far as the Witcher was aware, somebody was following him to kill him, or perhaps something worse. Pankratz would have preferred to keep it that way. 

It came as a surprise then, and an unwanted one at that, for him to discover upon arriving at his next destination- that the residing Witcher had yet to move on. 

Remaining unphased, the bard simply checked into his room and made sure- between the cracks of a broken mirror- that he was as well-groomed as always. If today was to be the day he would once more encounter his old friend, he’d make sure he looked his best. Of course, he had always known the time would come that he’d face Geralt. He’d been over their meeting dozens of times in both his dreams and his waking hours. Would they meet on a hunt? Seeking out the same prey in some ruined area of a far off forest? Or perhaps they’d run into each other amidst another war, sneaking throughout a kingdom as spies on the same assignment. Pankratz had been through all of the most romantic options long ago, he’d mulled them over and reached one ending for every single one. Wherever they would meet, he would find himself at the sharp end of Geralt’s sword. 

Creaks on the wooden staircase below him were enough to alert him to what was to come, footfalls too heavy to be the innkeeper, and too light to be any old thug. Geralt was well trained, careful, anybody else may even have dismissed the noise as their imagination. Not the hunter, however, he’d heard the crash of those boots a million other times. 

He straightened his jacket, and in one swift movement threw a sheet over the mirror. His back was not what it used to be- broader shoulders and a grey fade covering his nape, a scar spanned part of his spine and peered above his collar. He might even be unrecognisable. At least he would with no reflection to give him away. His voice was deeper too, rougher. Age and experience had made it more coarse, and it had lost the sweetness only his singing voice still retained the same moment he received his first blow. 

Behind him, a breeze disturbed the dust-coated floor, and he closed his eyes with a gentle smile. 

‘I thought Witchers were supposed to be brilliant trackers.’

‘Monsters are far easier to catch than humans, though sometimes the two categories are the same.’

‘I’m a monster?’ Pankratz held back a larger grin.

‘You may be.’ Geralt was slowly moving closer, Pankratz could picture him perfectly, though the picture was one distorted by a memory of the Geralt he once knew, ‘Or you may not be. I’ve yet to decide.’

‘I won’t fight back.’

‘Then why do you hold a sword?’

Pankratz nodded slightly at this question, a movement that was met with a cold metal tip pushing into the space just below his hairline. Holding his head down. He turned the sword under his hand, then pushed it out to one side and allowed it to fall with a loud clatter. 

‘So that I can let my dear friend here know you’ve arrived,’ He spoke carefully, as he’d been taught, as he’d really always known to, ‘So that if my body might end up next to my weapon, I might look like a great warrior.’ 

‘Then you’re no monster.’

‘That answer alone gave you what you needed for such a drastic conclusion?’

‘No monster would lower its weapon.’

‘Hm.’ 

Geralt held firm in his position, the tip of his own weapon still grazing the rough skin of the bard’s throat. Pankratz wondered what should happen next. Clearly he would need to make the first move if he wanted this process to happen quickly, but a part of him wanted nothing more than to drag this meeting out painfully. The Witcher pulled him from his thoughts before he could decide between the two. 

‘So what are you?’

‘You break into my room and expect me to answer your questions?’

‘One lunge and this sword is through your throat. I don’t think you have much of an option.’

‘I’m no Witcher if that’s what you mean.’ Pankratz was still, unaffected by his old companions' threats, the only movement was a hand he raised in the air beside his head. He flared his fingers, and in a moment flashed a ring he hoped would draw the white wolf’s attention. His hope was not futile, as an audible gasp was followed by a falter in the Witcher’s hold on him. ‘Does that answer your question?’

‘That belonged to _him_.’ Geralt seemed to speak through gritted teeth, ‘You know where he is, so tell me.’

‘What in the world makes you think he wants you to find him?’

‘I…’ Another falter. ‘I know he would want me to.’

‘For somebody so pretty, you are so awfully stupid.’ Pankratz let out a laugh at last, and spinning quickly, tossed a small silver object to the man across the room, who caught it effortlessly with one hand.

The action made the Witcher look down, made room for one more moment of sweet ignorance. Allowed Pankratz to take in a sight he had not been allowed to see for over a decade. Geralt looked as he always had, but stress had clearly gotten to him over the years. He had scars over his face now, and his frown lines had deepened to trenches. Not unlike Jaskier’s crows' feet, he supposed. His hands had new callouses, and the one which held the coin Pankratz had thrown was splattered with fresh blood- he had to wonder who’s, or perhaps what’s. 

Time seemed to freeze then. Or slow at least. Geralt turned the coin between his fingers and Pankratz watched with the sharp sting emotion in his eyes. He became thoughtless, stumbled forward to be pricked with Geralt’s blade. The metal stung his chest and he found he didn’t care, but the movement pressed the hilt of the sword to move Geralt’s arm back slightly, and all at once the spell was broken. No more staring, no more longing. It would all happen too fast now. 

‘Jaskier?’

The Witcher had looked up to see what his foe was doing. The sight he was met with became quickly ingrained in his mind. The sword fell from his fingers just as the red bloomed over Pankratz’s shirt. It was barely a wound, but blood always made things look more terrible than they were. Both men remained frozen in place, and as he thought he would, Pankratz made the first move. He raised his hand to touch his new scratch, pouting at the state of his outfit. 

‘That’s two suits within a single week. You’re my unlucky charm I swear.’

‘Jaskier.’

Geralt repeated that name. His name. The only name the Witcher had ever called him and would ever call him. The one that made him a flower, something useless and innocent. Something unable to harm, but able to be harmed. He had allowed that flower to be crushed under a Witcher’s boot once and had decided he’d grow back with thorns. Still, he grew back a rose. And gods help him he needed to be loved.

‘It’s me.’ 

‘Jaskier.’

‘It’s me, Geralt.’

He had tired of that name long ago. Tired of what it entailed. And yet on Geralt’s tongue, it felt like coming home. Who was he if not the buttercup in that wild Witcher’s side? He wasn’t sure of the reaction he should expect from Geralt, it was the one thing his daydreams never entailed. They always faded by this point, always interrupted by the suddenness of reality. Here, a heavy thud was the source of the break- except Pankratz wasn’t waking up anymore, he had always been awake, and the thud was not his conscious resurfacing, but the heavy fall of a broken man. 

Geralt was down on one knee, a large hand pressed uncomfortably to the floorboards the only thing preventing him from falling altogether. Through the blur of his own eyes, Pankratz could make out the shudder of the other’s shoulders. A sound like desperation clung to the air around them, and it took the bard far too long to distinguish that those were Geralt’s sobs. The white wolf took a long breath, and without looking up, and through the shake of his despair, he spoke at last.

‘How old are you now?’

‘Fifty-two.’

‘Your hair is grey.’

‘Yes,’ Pankratz smiled slightly, pushing a hand back through the soft locks atop his head, ‘mostly. It almost matches yours.’

Through a sob, Geralt gave a breathy laugh, and then all at once lowered himself further to kneel on both knees. He grabbed at his sword, lifted it, and shoved it into the wood beneath him. He was in submission, or he was holding his ground. Pankratz recognised it was both. 

‘You shouldn’t. However I know you won’t take my advice, so I’ll say this anyway; Forgive me.’

‘You’re right, I shouldn’t have.’

‘Have?’

Pankratz, all at once becoming Jaskier again, moved to push the sword out of the way of Geralt’s face and back to the ground again. His deft fingers once more met the Witcher’s hair, which was much longer than it had been, and he ran a thumb over the crease above his brow. 

‘It must have been seven years ago I forgave you. After I arrived at a town you’d left only to discover you’d given me no job spare. Instead, you’d paid off my room and let me continue to follow you to the next town over.’ Pankratz laughed, ‘You’d drunk yourself into a stupor the night before, the innkeeper said. Said you’d be out of his hair soon in a rather permanent way. You thought I was going to kill you and for at least the first three years you were prepared to let it happen.’

‘You called me stupid. And yet you forgave me for never finding you.’

‘You tried, didn’t you?’

‘Only when I felt like it.’ Geralt sighed, cocked his head into Pankratz’s hand. ‘You never stopped.’

‘Oh, I did. Many times. And I never intended to see you again.’

‘But you weren’t surprised today?’

‘I never intended to see you again, but I knew you intended to see me.’

Geralt nodded into his palm. Pankratz couldn’t help but focus on the thud of his own heart, it was hard to miss amidst his hurt, both physical and emotional. Here the two were, in absolute undeniable pain once more. For the first time in twelve years, they’d been reunited face to face, and the first thing Jaskier had done was to get too close, to hurt himself. They’d make the same mistakes on a cycle because they’d meet again because they’d always been meant to meet before. Geralt’s tears wet his skin, something new to break the cycle at last. He didn’t think he’d ever seen the Witcher cry before. Geralt had never had the means to. Pankratz was the perfectly aimed arrow to burn down the wall.

They sat like that for hours. At first, it passed quickly, as Pankratz had anticipated, and then all at once, it seemed to slow. Because all at once Geralt’s hand was on his cheek, covering Pankratz’s, and his lips were against the bard’s palm. 

The touch was everything Jaskier would have wanted; it was everything Pankratz sorely needed. It was so gentle and yet so desperate that it fit the pair of them well. 

‘Never leave me again.’

‘Not even if you ask me to?’

‘Not even then.’ Geralt looked up at Pankratz with an expression so serious he might have been a marble statue of an old god, ‘Never again.’  
The repetition of never again wasn’t with the same meaning as its first iteration, they both knew that without the words needing to be spoken. Geralt was promising to never hurt Jaskier again, wordlessly, and inside Pankratz the heart that had not aged gave way. Once again they were in that tavern, at that inn, on that horse ride, atop that mountainside. Twenty years of longing had never left him and it never would, now it was simply thirty years instead. Thirty years that had been interval led only with resent. 

His resent had never stuck around for long when it did come back though. It clung to his skin for a few weeks at most, and then left again like a bird in winter. How could he resent his first real love for long, Geralt could have driven a sword through his side- he had told himself- and he would still be just as smitten. So he had turned his affection into motivation and became who he was today. He went by his surname, addressed others by theirs if they had one, he became a man his eighteen-year-old self would be proud to know. He could fight with a sword now, he could hold his own in a scuffle, he didn’t need Geralt anymore.

And that was his aim.

He wanted to make sure he’d never need Geralt again. So that if, when, he did see him- he’d only want him. That way he’d know for sure he’d let himself forgive him. That way he’d be aware if he hadn’t. By making sure he never needed Geralt, he made sure that he could choose between venom and honey if he wished to make the choice. Jaskier, Pankratz, either man would be able to sit and do as he had today without hesitation. 

‘I missed you.’

To say those words without hesitation.

**Author's Note:**

> Shoutout to Taylor, who sat on call with me for the whole three hours I was writing this.


End file.
